


Here We Are Again

by Twobit_scribbles



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic, Sinbad no Bouken - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twobit_scribbles/pseuds/Twobit_scribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kneeling on the destroyed floor of Zephr’s dungeon, Drakon can’t help but wonder how they got here.</p><p>Platonic Drakon and Ja’far (written as platonic but hey, whatever floats your boat)</p><p>SPOILER WARNING: for all of SnB but ESPECIALLY chapter 100.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here We Are Again

If he took the time to think about it, Drakon could easily trace the line of events that lead him into this nightmare. He remembered (it was only a few years ago wasn’t it?) a younger version of himself, burning with righteous anger at the young rebel who had stolen the power of a Djiin out from under his country. He remembered the drive for revenge that landed him in another Solomon-forsaken dungeon with a unit of state-funded assassins of all people.

He remembered feeling distain for the boy at the time, him and his unruly band of murderers. There had been no discipline, no respect, no honor among any one of them. He had justified them at the time as a necessary evil: crude, but effective. Whatever it took for the sake of Parthevia. Ja’far had seemed the most normal looking of them all, if a bit on the short side. But there had been nothing human in his eyes, in his blatant disregard for his subordinate’s lives, or in the bloodlust that hung over him so thickly it was almost visible. It had been quite unsettling.

Time always moved strangely in dungeons. The sequence of the events of that day was still a bit jumbled in his mind. But he remembered Valfor’s rejection, Sinbad’s trickery, the bold, charismatic speech that had begun to sway his heart, and the treachery of Falan. He remembered the black beast that had consumed his allies, the frantic fight, and Sinbad’s desperate desire to save the enemies who had tried to kill him. He remembered kneeling on the floor of that dungeon holding an unconscious child assassin in his arms. He remembered the chaos of the beast’s revival, the final victory, the offer of companionship, but more than that….

He remembered that his own brother had sent him into that dungeon to die.

He hadn’t thought of that group of assassins for a while after that. He had his own life, a life that was slipping through his fingers even then, a façade that had finally started to fall. But after the horrifying events in Parthevia, after losing his home, his brother, his own human form he’d taken the last people in the world that loved him and fled to the only shelter he’d know of. And there they were.

He was too tired, miserable, and shell shocked to realize it at the time, but he vaguely remembered almost not recognizing Ja’far at all. It was amazing, really, to see the change in him, brought about by Sinbad and by Rurumu, the kind, beautiful, terrifying mother figure who could blunt even the sharp tongue of the Poisonous Spider Princess herself.

After some time with Sinbad and his company, it seemed that both of them had lost some of the anger they’d been holding in their hearts. And while he and Ja’far were not particularly close, he’d grown to appreciate the other’s presence in the company offices. He’d gotten used to hearing that familiar voice, no longer harsh and cutting, chiding Sinbad with the put-upon tone of a close friend. He’d enjoyed just shooting the breeze with him about day-to-day business. And every so often, they had shared a pot of tea during mutual late nights in the office.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of exile and hardship, he had a place to call home, people he called friends. And when Sinbad had offered him a chance to explore the world beyond Parthevia with his companions, he’d jumped at it.

He realized now that while he had approached the dungeon with a decent amount of trepidation, in the end he’d let himself get too cocky. After all, he’d survived two dungeons before this one. Everyone was on the same side this time, so there was no need to worry about human adversaries. The members of their party were all strong, all capable of defending themselves in their own way.

It should have been easy.

How could they have known the horror that awaited them? How could anyone have predicted the master of this dungeon would be so cruel, so callous, so heartless? How could they have known the battles approaching them would pit friend against friend?

And how could Sinbad just stand back and watch as their comrades in arms fought each other? How could he sit in silence as that malicious Djinn took control of Masrur’s body, taking away the freedom the former slave had fought so hard for? How could he say nothing, as they realized with dawning horror that this was a fight that Ja’far could not win? How could he do nothing as his loyal subordinate, his loyal friend dodged hit after hit, taking damage nonetheless, unable to fight back? Why hadn’t Sinbad listened to him?

And just when they thought that Ja’far had the upper hand, just when it looked like things might turn out all right….

Ja’far had smiled at them, and Drakon felt his heart stop.

As a former captain, a former soldier, death was something he’d grown used to over the years. He remembered the battles he fought for Parthevia. He remembered shouting orders over the sounds of clashing swords and screaming men, keeping one eye on Seradine as the chaos raged around them. He remembered wielding his own sword against the enemy, the conviction of the righteousness of his cause lending them no mercy. He’d cut down countless soldiers of Reim, and watched as his own men were cut down in kind. He understood very well that no matter how carefully strategized a battle was, there would always be casualties

But that was supposed to be behind him now. Sinbad was supposed to be different. What a naïve a thought.

Kneeling on the destroyed floor of the dungeon, he kept his face carefully calm, carefully blank as he assessed the situation.

The body cradled in his hands was still and pale. Blood was no longer rushing from the brutal, self-inflicted wound. Perhaps some would have taken this as a good sign, but Drakon knew better. It meant that the victim’s heart was no longer pumping blood to the source. It meant that the heart had stopped.

He paused at this, taking a second to regain his composure as the evidence became more and more clear. Sinbad, hovering uncertainly at his side, kept flicking his wide eyes from the inert form and Drakon’s face, searching it for answers. His hands flitted, unable to decide were to go, unable to touch the body in Drakon’s hands, until he finally settled on clenching them.

Taking a slow, deep breath, Drakon continued his examination. As gently as he could, he tightened his grip on the body, and carefully raised it to his (strange, webbed, inhuman) ear. He held his breath and listened. He strained the advanced hearing of his abnormal form, searching for a sign, any sign of life.

Nothing. Not a single, weak heartbeat. Not a shallow, shuddering breath. The chest beneath his ear was still.

Ja’far was dead.

Sorrow began to rise in his chest, as lowered his arms and finally looked Sinbad in the eyes. The duty of telling civilians that their loved ones had fallen in battle was not an unfamiliar obligation. But Sinbad was not a civilian, and Ja’far was not a nameless soldier. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears as he relayed the sad news.

There was nothing he could do now but bow his head. Ja’far’s little body, still small for his age even now, looked so tiny in Drakon’s massive claws. He thought back to another dungeon, the same small boy lying unconscious in his human arms. But there would be no recovery this time.

He closed his eyes. Even though he could remember, even though he could list out the events leading up to this on a timeline, he couldn’t understand how this had happened. He could hear Sinbad’s outraged cries at the hateful Djinn that had forced Ja’far’s hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to raise his head. He couldn’t open his eyes; he couldn’t face the body of the boy he had failed.

His own heart almost stopped beating when he felt a twitch from said body. Dead bodies twitched sometimes, he had seen in before, but this body moved again, more distinctly this time. He opened his eyes, and was shocked to meet a pair of dark ones staring back up at him. The boy in his hands graced him with a tired smile before seeking out Sinbad to fix the mess he had made like he seemed to do so often.

Somehow, some way, Ja’far was alive. And if they ever made it out of this dungeon, Drakon swore to himself that they would fix this. They would never end up here again. He would never fail Ja’far again.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born out of my inability to get how small Ja’far looked in Drakon’s claws out of my head. Like I said, written as platonic, but whatever floats your boat (or sails your ship *gigglesnort*). 
> 
> Re-read a bunch of SnB in an attempt to research Drakon; he’s an interesting character. I think that Drakon would have distanced himself, and approached the situation as impersonally as possible, but in the end, he’s still human. I also think he would feel a bit responsible for not being able to sway Sinbad (why did you just watch Sinbad you dumbass?!). But then again, I’ve never written him before, so please let me know what you thought of the characterization. (Still focused mostly on Ja’far though, big surprise, and I think I let this be too much explanation). Thanks for reading!


End file.
